


Caveat Street, Merriweather House,  Summer 1944

by Artemis00



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1944, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boring married life, Decadent Tom Riddle, Exhibitionism, Fragile Tom Riddle, Guilty Tom, Harry Potter is Not the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry is married to Ginny, M/M, Painter Harry, Squatter Tom, Tom is sixteen, Tom just killed his father, Voyeurism, bored harry, dad issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2020-11-28 13:03:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20967011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis00/pseuds/Artemis00
Summary: Summer 1944. Harry is a painter. He represents only the long-abandoned house he can see from his studio's window, Unless, suddenly, it's not abandoned anymore.Summer 1944. Tom killed his father.





	1. Chapter 1

**I**

I dip the brush into the tender, light green; the bristles rotate, intertwining. I approach the canvas, brows furrowed. Small gestures of the wrist, like a pianist would play the last notes of a well-known song. Now the leaves of the sycamore tree are kissed by the sun.  
I take a step back. I glance outside my studio window. Yes. This is right. The right nuance of green, the green of a plant in full health, eating the corpse of a mansion.  
I bow to the lower side of the canva. Cautiously, I touch the grey color of the lone, huge rock of the wild garden, which has not known a gardener’s hand for a very long time. Perfectly dry.  
I grab the charcoal.

** _Caveat Street, Merriweather House, _ **  
** _Summer 1944._ **

This is it. It’s done. This pale excuse of a painting, my seventh representation of this abandoned house. Without counting the preparatory sketches. He’s so passionate about this old mansion, will coo my loving wife at the next reunion of her book club. And, who knows? Maybe she really thinks so. As far as I am concerned, it couldn’t be clearer that my art is not less dead than Merriweather House.  
I glance outside the window once more. Merriweather House. I remember barely when the mansion was actually inhabited, and, of the times in which it was in a good state, I don’t have no recollection at all. It was already gloomy and decadent when I was a child with short pants and long snot from the nose - the old mrs Merriweather was pretty alive at the times.  
I was horrified by her - her long, savage hairs, her gnarled hands. The way she used to cover her face with a wool shawl, unless for a little chink in the fabric, from which she observed the world. From which she observed me - that was what I used to believe. I thought she was a evil sorcerer, waiting to kidnapping and cooking children like me.  
Mere fantasies, of course. Poor thing, she was just a lone old lady, victim of dragon pox. She covered her face because she was disfigured.  
I discovered this right after my sixth year in Hogwarts. I felt guilty for having been so relieved.  
Maybe she really was a sorcerer, I think as I observe her abandoned house. For she cursed me, condemning me to paint her mansion and her mansion alone, for the rest of my life.  
Oops. That was frightening. I smile to myself - when suddenly i don’t. The light smile leaves my face as I furrow my brows: that curtain.  
That curtain, on the first floor of the mansion. The only window covered by something, limiting the resemblance of an empty orbit (indisputable characteristic of the other windows).  
I glance my now-completed painting. Old, dust-gray curtain, barely whole enough to cover the inside of the room.  
I glance the actual mansion facade. White new curtain, not consumed, not torn. Something is not right.  
I don’t repute myself an eagle-eyed, talented artist who can learn everything of something at the first glance, thanks to his observation skills. But I cannot unsee such a detail. A brand new curtain, on a chipped, rotten window? After seven representation of the same mansion?  
Something’s not right.

I’m not surprised to listen, this afternoon at dinner, my beloved wife talking about Merriweather House. How it’s not so uninhabited anymore.

**II**

My thoughts?  
I’m a bit upset. No, it’s not correct. I’m displeased.  
Displeased enough to not glance anymore outside of my studio’s window. Displeased enough to show off whole indifference when my wife pulls up the topic.  
What kind will our new neighbor be? Will they have children? I hope so, James and Luna have plenty of each other now, they would be totally content to play with some other children.  
How will they modify the house? Will they modernize it? Will they keep that romantic-looking balcony?  
“Frankly I do not care” I say one evening, resting on our bed and waiting for my chatting wife to join me.  
She shuts up, obediently. She doesn’t look mad, but you never know, so I smile to sweeten my look.  
“I’m just a bit upset, that’s all” I justify myself “you know, I’m not an innovator, I’m quite an habitual person”  
Not true. I’m a whole Gryffindor - well, I was. I was adventurous, I was passionate (not about abandoned mansions, thank you very much), I was bold.  
But now I’m just a husband, a father of two, a constipated painter in his thirties. The most exciting adventure, I say to my friends of the club, is sleeping without socks. Ir would be hilarious if it wasn’t true. I don’t remember anymore what actually means, being excited for something. Everything is so fake, so grey… but this is adulthood. I have a beautiful wife and perfect children, a good income. I have no right to complain - golly, people are dying at the eastern front.  
“Let’s turn on the radio” I say. I want to distract myself from my senseless concerns. The world goes on.  
My wife pouts - not a temperamental pout. She’s like this, when she’s concerned, she pouts.  
“Are you sure?” She gets on the bed “I don’t think I could sleep if I heard of Grindelwald”  
She’s not wrong.  
“It’s important to be informed” gosh, such a pre-packed phrase! When did I become so boring?  
She doesn’t notice my dismay.  
“Don’t worry, I enchanted the radio so that it turnes on by itself if something notable happens”  
Oh, she’s smart.  
She leans languidly towards me.  
“Have you calmed down now?”  
I fake a smile. I couldn’t calm down because I was not agitated in the first place. She presumes I nodded, and presses herself on me.  
“Would you like to make something else this night?”  
Ah. Sex. Maybe the most overrated things of them all. You pass all your youth thinking about it, how would it be, envying your shameless classmates and their adventures with Knokturne Alley’s ladies. And then you’re not fourty and you have plenty of it.  
“I’m not in the mood tonight”  
“What could put you in the mood?” Her smile doesn’t fade. I think she’s not in the mood too, but she fakes it, because it’s one of her duties. I understand, because it’s one of mine too.  
“I don’t know, Ginny” and it’s true. I don’t know, and, even if I knew, I don’t think it would be something she could enjoy. I know it for sure, even if I don’t know why.  
“You would tell me, if you would discover how?”  
“I would” I assure “I will”  
Here’s the lie.


	2. Chapter 2

To Ginny's great surprise, our neighbour doesn't seem interested in modernizing the house. Nor in renovating it, for that matter. Neither the garden weeds seem to bother him. In fact, Merriweather House has remained the same.  
“Well, maybe someone has bought the mansion” says James matter-of-factly “and they’re still unsure whether to breaking it down or renovating it”  
It might make sense, if it weren’t for the fact that someone clearly lives in there.  
Now Merriweather House has caught my attention, and I glance often at the facade from my studio’s window. The curtains always change position. Once, I even saw them slightly apart. Just a chink, through which I could only see a mug and a kettle.  
“Someone lives in there”  
It wasn’t me who spoke, but Luna.  
My little daughter is spreading butter on her scone, looking at no one in particular.  
“Why so sure, sweetheart?” Cooes Ginny, caressing her red hair behind her neck.  
“I gave him my treacle tart yesterday”  
Silence falls in the dining room.  
“You did what” says James, not less adventurous than her, but rightly worried as any older brother would be.  
“What I said” Luna puts some raspberry jam on her buttered scone “I gave him my dessert”  
“How could you!” her horrified brother exclaims.  
“T’was the right thing to do” answers my sweetheart “as I really really _hate_ the treacle tart, but mum insists on giving it to me. I didn’t want to throw it away, there are children starving… am I wrong, dad?”  
“So you thought about going to knock on the door of a stranger” completes my wife with a slightly threatening tone.  
“No, he was outside” Luna answers calmly, as if the nails of my wife (quite short) aren’t stabbing her shoulders.  
“Ginny, my dear, you will harm her” I note kindly.  
Ginny winces and retracts her hands.  
“Outside?” I ask my daughter.  
Luna munches her scone and nods.  
“_Oui_, dad. He was indeed in the garden, his hands in his pockets. He was handsome, but quite thin, I thought about starving children and I offered him my dessert”  
“You’re generous, darling” I say, hiding my concern.  
“No, I was not, because I hate…”  
“I know, I know, you hate the treacle tart” I cut out “so? Was he an old man?”  
“No! He was” she seems lost in her thoughts, the tip of her nose pink of raspberry jam “he was young, but older than James, around Hogwarts age? Late Hogwarts” she specifies, triumphant “yes, late Hogwarts age”  
“Was he a wizard or a muggle?”  
“Wizard” answers Lily “he had a wand”  
A young wizard, maybe living alone in an abandoned house.  
“Should we call the Aurors?” I ask to Ginny, still a bit concerned.  
Ginny’s brows furrow.  
“Oh, dear, I don’t know. Maybe he will return to Hogwarts in september”  
We were both too much Gryffindor to ruin a young boy’s plan without thinking twice.  
“We should wait and see” I say “maybe he escaped home”  
“Maybe he’s an orphan” suggests Ginny, sadly.  
I nod. Orphans are not a rare occurrence nowadays.  
“So you gave him the treacle tart” I say to Luna “what did he do?”  
“I don’t think he likes the treacle tart too, which doesn’t surprise me” she sighs “he didn't seem so enthusiast about it. But I think he accepted it, because he said to me to get him a fork”  
“He wanted a fork?” I repeat, puzzled.  
Luna nods.  
“Yes, he said, textually, ‘get the fork out”  
Silence. I cover my mouth as a laugh escapes my nose. James stills, in awe, and Ginny turns her back to us, so we don’t see her laughing.  
“I don’t think he wanted a fork, darling” I assure, with teary eyes.  
“I don’t think so too, because when I returned to him with the fork, he wasn’t there anymore”  
“So rude” sighs my wife, still red in face “saying such a thing to a young lady”  
“What?”  
“Shut up Luna, now the grown-ups are talking”  
“At least we’re sure he’s not a molester” I say with conciliatory tone.  
Ginny turns pale.  
“Harry!” She isses, and glances at James and Luna, who’re eating their breakfast pretending they’re deaf.  
“Oh, well, they're going to hear about it one day or another” I defend myself.  
“You can’t talk about such a thing in front of them!” exclaims Ginny - now she’s getting mad. Such a stupid reason to fight!  
“Okay, okay” I surrender, just because I don’t want to quarrel right now. I still think I’m right - the world is not a wonderful, innocent place without dangers, and our children have the right to be aware of it.  
“Don’t okay-okay-me, Harry Potter!” Ginny is determined to have a row this morning, duh “you’re always like this. You say okay okay but you still think you’re right”  
“Well, this is how a fight works, Ginny”  
“Don’t treat me like I’m stupid, Harry” she slaps her hand on the table.  
Our children are looking away from us. It’s painful how they’re used to our quarrels, more than to our kisses.  
“I just think” I say, with forced calm “I just think, it’s a father job to explain his children there are threats out there”  
“Oh, _please_” laughs Ginny without humour “there has been the magic war for most of their lives, and, guess what, it’s still there!”  
“Boy, you talk like it’s my fault!”  
Ginny opens her mouth. She shuts it. The temperature of the dining room drops; literally. It happens, when you’re a wizard.  
“Uh, we’re leaving” hisses James before dragging his little sister out of the room. Neither of us answers to that.  
I just know what she wants to say_. If you were so versed to Defence Against the Dark Arts, why didn’t you become at least an Auror? Why are you here, instead at the eastern front, fighting for us against Grindelwald?_  
I told you, sweetheart. We talked about it. You were here, when I said that, as an orphan myself, I didn’t want to make another orphan - not mine, nor some enemy wizard’s. You were pregnant and you smiled and your eyes were shiny and happy; you were relieved because you loved me. When did you start to hate me so much that you want me to be somewhere risking my life?  
And, when did I start to hate life so much that I think you’re right?  
I’m silent. Ginny bites the inside of her cheek, then she smiles again, her eyes glistening somewhat cruelly.  
“Now that I think about it, if you want to protect your children so much”  
Oh, there we are. Now she’ll say what she thinks about me, about me not fighting in the war.  
“Maybe you should make a visit to our young neighbour, and teach him not to be so rude to them. I don’t want to hear any cockney around my house” she puts her fists on her hips “you think you can do it, do you? Is it enough _protective_ for your taste?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry meets his young neighbour.

I’d rather not do it. Really. First of all because I’m not a particularly authoritarian husband, but I’m neither one who takes orders from his wife. Secondly, I don’t think this is a good idea. Something tells me not to do it. It’s almost an omen, a foresight. I’ve never been a talented student at my Divination class (taken only for fun), but now I feel like a prophet. Don’t do it, Harry. It’s a bad idea.  
But, here I am, in front of the Merriweather House’s door, appropriately peeled due to the time. Why so? Because I’m concerned about my children. It would be reckless on my part not to visit my neighbour, when he’s surely some kind of tramp, however a young one. And he met my daughter - he drove her away, which was rude but comforting. I don’t want to threaten him, but it’s my precise responsibility as a father to get to know him. Second reason: despite my bad premonitions, I’m curious. Third reason: if I was prone to listen to good advices, I wouldn’t have been a Gryffindor.  
Two reasons against it, three pros. So I’m knocking the door.  
Toc toc.  
Dry paint peels off the wood and falls to my feet. I bend down to clean my shoes, and in doing so I cling to the doorknob. Which rotates, and snaps. The door opens before me, with a long squeak. A light smell of dust and moisture hits my nostrils - less than I expected to be honest. Someone has to live in here, now I know it for sure, or the smell would be unbearable.  
“Uhm, good morning?” I say out loud, awkwardly “anybody home?”  
I still, waiting for an answer. Nothing… no, a sound, as for creaking wood, maybe under someone’s weight. My forehead itches. Someone’s perfectly still, and motionless, somewhere. Observing.  
“I’m your neighbour, Potter. Harry Potter” I step inside “sorry for the intrusion, I don’t want to be a bother”  
Then why are you here? Answers my brain, who’s my archenemy sometimes.  
A sudden current of air closes the door behind me. Someone would find it scary, but it’s pretty common in houses like these: if we didn’t pay attention, in my house the doors would bump continuously.  
“May I?” now I’m feeling an idiot, talking to no one. But he’s here, I’m sure of it. My forehead knows.  
Ok. Ok, Harry, you were a boy too. A Gryffindor. An orphan. Not a lone child, I had my godfather, but… Merlin, what would I like to hear from a complete stranger, an adult, if I was in his shoes?  
“I talked to my daughter” I say non-threateningly “she told me about you. I know you’re pretty young, and I know that… well you probably shouldn’t be here, but, I’m not reporting this, I’m not reporting you to the Aurors. Merlin knows that there are some other problems more compelling than a young boy occupying an abandoned house. You can stay here if you like it, but, I want to know you. I want to see you, at least once. _Please_.” am I really begging a kid? Sweet Godric “no need to be scared”  
“I’m _not_ scared” says a voice, suddenly, from upstairs. A young male voice, with a hint of disdain. This makes me smile, as I look up to the stairs. He’s there, in backlight, a large window behind his back. I blink. I can’t see much, just the black silhouette of a tall, thin guy, dark hair, wavy on one side. He’s dressed in a light shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing skinny wrists and bony fingers. It’s like he notices I’m looking at his hands, because he sinks them into the pockets of his dark pants, supported by  
dark as well braces.  
The conformation of his body, his shoulders, everything tells me Luna was right. Late Hogwarts age.  
I blink again, in an attempt to get used to the light.  
“Hello” I say cheerfully, as if I’m not intruding in his house - well it’s not his house, but mine neither “I’m…”  
“I know who you are” he cuts out “I heard it the first time”  
“Perfect, now all that remains is to know your name, what do you think?” I smile, feeling in control. He’s really just a boy.  
He stills.  
“Dennis Bishop”  
“I don’t think it’s your true name”  
“So why did you ask me in the first place?”  
I laugh. He doesn’t. I don’t think he’s mad, his velvety voice is perfectly calm and not angry, just… cautious. He’s observing me as if doing so he could understand everything about me. As if there was the possibility it’s me, the family man, the dangerous person of this situation.  
Maybe I’m a cruel person, but it’s quite funny.  
“Are you done?”  
He nearly flinches.  
“Doing what?” now, there’s a hint of anger in his voice.  
“You’re observing me, Dennis”  
Silence.  
“Don’t call me by that name” he’s angry now. Or panicked?  
I smile again. Yes, yes it’s definitely funny. What an interesting boy.  
“You just told me to…”  
“I know what I said” he interrupts “I’ve changed idea now”  
“Well if you aren’t a strange little thing”  
“Don’t call me little thing. But you’re not the first to say I’m strange”  
“Why doesn’t this surprise me?”  
Now it’s his turn to laugh. A little laugh, so short I think I imagined it.  
A thunder grumbles outside the house. We look around, and immediately the light from the windows fades and the unmistakable ticking of a heavy rain hits the roof.  
The boy goes down the staircase with hasty steps. I’m about to glance at him with surprise, when I notice the drops of water, thick and dense, falling from the ceiling down to the wood of the stairs. Poor thing, the roof’s broken. If he remains here, he will become like a wet sparrow.  
I raise my wand to the ceiling.  
“Impervio” I say calmly.  
The water stops. Let’s not fool ourselves, the air is still thick from moisture and there are drafts of air from all the sides, but at least the roof is fixed for now.  
“Well” the boy clears his voice “I should thank you, I suppose”  
I glance at him, and I freeze. Again, Luna was right, he’s definitely a beauty. Boys his age are clumsy, angular, graceless: bony legs, arms too long and shoulders too tight. He’s armonious, as far as I can see his body through his clothes; but his face! High cheekbones, slightly hollow cheeks, big dark eyes surrounded by long, thick eyelashes, red lips on cream-white skin, perfectly smooth. His hairs are naturally wavy, with a soft curl on the left temple. Simply delightful.  
He raises a perfect gull-wing eyebrow.  
“Sir?”  
I return to reality and I close my mouth.  
“Why, no need to thank me” I say awkwardly.  
He shrugs, not at all satisfied from my answer.  
“Something bothered you, sir?”  
Oh well, telling the truth would kill no one.  
“To be honest, I was thinking that you’re quite handsome” I say, stealing my daughter’s words.  
This seems to impress him. He looks away, not entirely uncomfortably, and one side of his lips trembles.  
“Well, you’re not the first person to say this too” he says with a hint of shyness “but I was referring… I mean” he moistens his lips “I was saying, why you came to visit, sir. Is it because I was rude to your daughter, by chance?”  
My cheeks burn up, but it can’t be helped. I’m mortified, but he seems pleased to have received a compliment, so it can’t be that bad.  
“My wife sent me for this reason” I admit “but I just wanted to met you, that’s all”  
He nods, still a bit pink on his hollow cheeks.  
“I understand. Usually I’m not rude to children, you know? I’m a Prefect. But” he says hastily, as if he doesn’t want to be interrupted “I wanted to scare her. I’m sorry, but I didn’t want to give the wrong impression” he raises his eyebrows allusively “if you know what I mean, sir”  
Another one who doesn’t want to talk openly about molesters. Ginny would love him, figures.  
“I understand” I assure “I imagined it was something like that. Don’t worry, I’m not mad about it”  
“It’s good to hear it” he observes “but, since we know each other now, I just wanted to point out I’m not that rude”  
“Don’t worry” I repeat.  
My eyes indulge on his pleasant face, until he looks back - then I look away awkwardly.  
Silence.  
Then the boy moves.  
“Well, I don’t want to be rude again, but…”  
“Oh, you’re right” I say quickly “I understand. It’s time to go now”  
He looks slightly worried.  
“It’s just - I’m going to work now”  
“I understand, really” why am I repeating twenty times the same thing? Merlin what a git “don’t worry” third time, seriously.  
I step back and reach the door.  
The boy raises a hand hesitantly.  
“Goodbye sir”  
“See you, No-Name”  
This makes him smile.  
“My name is Tom” he surrenders.  
I smile back. Tom. Such a normal name for a interesting boy.  
“Well, see you, Tom”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry draws a line.  
And then another.  
And then another.

I sigh at my perfectly white, untouched canvas. I’ve been standing in front of the easel for, I don’t know, an hour? Two maybe? My feet hurt from being standing still such a long time.  
Even the palette is clean: why waste color, if the inspiration doesn’t come? It’s not a constructive attitude, I know it - but this is the thirty-two years old, bored, pessimist, pointless me.  
I glance automatically outside the window; a tic I learned by painting always the same house over and over again.  
The window on the facade of Merriweather House is open. Curtains disclosed. The surprise makes my brush to fall from my numb hand. As it rolls over the floor of the studio, I step ahead and approach my window. I open it, with a light squeaking.  
Tom is looking out, his bony elbows resting carelessly on the windowsill. They’re staining with lime dust, I notice as he raises his left hand towards his face. He has a cigarette between his index and middle fingers. His long fingers curve gently when his lips approach the ochre filter. The lips closes, the cigarette tilts and vibrates, the embers light up and his thick, glossy lashes quiver on the half-closed eyes. His cheeks hollow as he sucks in a mouthful of smoke.  
I’m observing him, and for distraction I let go of the window doors, which bump against the wall of the facade.  
This draws Tom’s attention. He raises his head and glances at me; the embers fall from his cigarette, into the void. Maybe his thoughts too: the interrupted thread of his reflections is falling into the void. I feel even more indiscreet than the time I got into his house.  
Now he will say something; he will say “hello”, or “good evening”, or something like that. He remains silent, and looks at me, a serious expression on his pleasant face.  
It’s not lost, I think irrationally. The thread of his reflections is not yet lost - but we have to remain silent. So I close my lips and just nod my head in a greeting. He does the same, without breaking the silence.  
His brow rises for a tenth of a second, the wings beat of a hummingbird - so quick are his thoughts, I realize - in a tenth of a second he formulated and approved a complex concept. It sounds stupid, I know, but I’m sure of it.  
His eyes never leave mine - they’re dark, someone would call them void - for me, they’re deep wells, filled with black water and secrets. Trivial similitude? I’m a painter, not a poet.  
Without looking away from him, I slowly raise my wand behind my shoulders.  
“Accio easel” I whisper, without moving my lips.  
The easel squeaks as approaches me, not so loudly to break the silence between me and this boy.  
“Accio charcoal”  
He notices the canvas I moved between myself and the window, a little to the right of my body, so I can draw easily. If I had a hint of panic, it quickly fades as I realize Tom isn’t running away. He doesn’t retract from the window, doesn’t close the curtains with a sharp movement - he remains still, serious, his eyes darting from the canvas to the charcoal between my fingers, from my eyes to the world around him. He observes the clouds, the leaves I painted so many times, his eyes linger on the street and the empty gardens.  
In the meantime, my hand dances on the no-more-white canvas. The charcoal draws lines, points, curves; my fingers rub the the fabric, blurring the black of his hair, creating shadows for his cheeks, gray scales inside the rounded shapes of his lips. My wrist rises slowly, slowly, caressing lovingly the adorable curve of his mouth - and then falls - and rises again, a flounce for his Cupid’s bow. I feel like I’m on the charcoal, the charcoal is the broom I had when I was a boy myself, flying airily around the school, the scottish mountains around me, the Castle behind me, my entire life in front of me.  
I breath fast, my heart beats even faster, my wrist hurts, my entire hand is black and my eyes burn - as they’re wide open: I’m incapable of blinking. But I resist. I can’t stop now. Just another stroke. Just another detail. Just another shade. Just another… it’s getting dark now. No, no, it’s definitely dark. I can barely make out his face, just because his skin is so white, it reflects the light of a far-away street lamp.  
He’s still there. Isn’t he tired from all this standing up? Don’t hurt his elbows? Isn’t his back aching?  
I look at him, now distraught rather than rapt. He stood all this time at the window of Merriweather House, tirelessly observing me observing him.  
I open my lips.  
_Why…?_ I want to say, but my studio’s door opens and my heart falls down into my stomach. My knees give way and I fall too, my kneecaps meet the floor and I wail of pain, also because my ligaments squeak after being strained so long and uninterruptedly.  
“Harry?”  
Crawling on the floor, fingers clinging to the window sill, I turn my head around, looking over my shoulder. My wife is standing in front of the open door.  
“Harry, are you going to have dinner today?” she raises her brows, sarcastic.  
I don’t answer - not immediately. Pulling up with my fingers - I’m leaving black marks of charcoal on the wall - I lift myself up, just a bit. I peek over the window sill - Tom’s not there, no more.  
Did he run away when I fell? Did he hear my wife opening the door? Was he scared - and why?  
Has he really been there all this time, or was I hallucinating? Questions, questions crowd my head and peck my brain like pigeons in Hyde Park.  
“Harry? Are you deaf?”  
Oh, for Merlin’s sake!  
“No, Ginny, I’m not deaf” I sigh as I stand up. My back hurts and I grimace.  
“Then why don’t you…” she notices the canvas “oh”  
Yes, oh. The appropriate reaction.  
She approaches the canvas, quietly, the dinner far from her attention for now.  
“Did you…” she bits her lips “yes, it’s a stupid question. Just…” she hesitates and then points at the drawing “why? It’s not I don’t like this or anything, but…”  
She looks at me, looking for help. I’m too prostrate to go along with it.  
“Merlin, Harry, it’s so _different_ from the usual, do you realize it?”  
I nod absentmindedly.  
Ginny glances again at the canvas.  
“I don’t know, I like it, but - who, who is he, to begin with?”  
Who is he? He’s our neighbour, Ginny. The tramp, you now, I met him to mornings ago, after you’ve been so kind to me.  
I open my mouth, but I change idea. Divination, again. My forehead itches so badly I furrow my brows.  
“It’s James” I lie “In a few years. I asked myself, how will he be like in a few years from now, so I drawed what I imaginated”  
She stares at the canva, her expression communicates skepticism now - not about what I said.  
“Well, you’re quite optimistic. James’ a handsome boy, but this…” she laughs softly “just… no, Harry” she shakes her head. She’s like this, unable to lie to me, even if it was for encouraging me. Once, I liked this trait of her character, now I find her indelicacy utterly irritating. Maybe it’s just a manchild’s tantrum, but - I’m not offended, because I lied. This is not James, so, I have nothing to be offended about.  
“Are we going to dinner?” I ask politely.  
Ginny nearly flinches.  
“Right, the dinner!” She turns the back to the portrait without thinking twice. Soon it’ll be forgotten, and it’s for the best.  
I don’t want her to find out what happened today, because - I foresee - this isn’t the end of this.  
My forehead still aches as I close the door of my studio behind me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom observes Harry playing with his son.

“Just keep your eyes on the ball, James”   
I throw the ball at in James’ direction, a little higher than his height - nothing he couldn’t reach jumping.  
James tries to catch it, misses. The ball hits the grass behind him and rolls to the tool shed. James’ shoulders droop. He tries so much to be a good Seeker, but his effort doesn’t bear any fruit - I don’t dare admit it, but if he can’t get a ball thrown by me (not exactly a champion), how could he catch the Golden Snitch?   
“I suck as a Seeker” he sighs.   
My heart clenches to seeing it so depressed.   
“That’s not true, James” I say softly as I approach him.  
James shakes his head.  
“Mommy thinks so too” he mutters.  
I eyeroll. Ginny, seriously?  
“I don’t think she said literally that you suck, darling” but obviously she let him believe it.   
“No, she didn’t, but…”  
“Listen” I put my hand on his shoulder and lean toward him “I don’t think you suck. I’m sorry we can’t use brooms in our garden”  
“It’s not about brooms” he sighs. Godric, he must be devastated, because only yesterday he made a whim about us not having enough protective Charms around our house, so the muggles wouldn’t see us doing magic in our property.  
“I think it’s a bit about brooms” I contradict him “I think, once you get used to the flight, you could show an unexpected talent”  
“As a Seeker?” he asks, doubtful.  
I squeeze gently his shoulder.  
“As a Seeker, as a Chaser… who knows?” I smile encouragingly “would it be so terrible being a Chaser? You’re good at throwing things, better than me at your age. Plus, there are three Chasers in a quidditch team”  
“And just one Seeker” he rebels polemically “one Seeker, he will have all the glory for himself”  
“Just one Seeker” I repeat, without getting mad at the interruption “and if he was a second year? His place would be occupied for most of your years at Hogwarts”  
“Or a first year” he recognizes “like you”  
There’s a bit of bitterness in his tone of voice. To be honest, I’m quite happy he’s so atrocious as a Seeker. If he was decent, and he took the place, he would fight forever against my reputation. James should be a genius of Quidditch to endure it. Better than me, or nothing.  
“What I want to say is” I say with a reasonable tone “is there something wrong in training yourself as a Chaser too?”  
James bites his lips. He wants to say “yes”, but he doesn’t know how to argue.  
“You know” I lean more toward him, and I look him in his warm brown eyes “a good Captain can play more than a role. If one of your Chasers is knocked out, and someone volunteers, but he’s more talented as a Seeker than as a Chaser, you should let him play the role he’s more versed in, and you should be the Chaser - for the good of your Team”  
James swings a bit, uncertain. He rises his eyes on mine.  
“Did you do that?” he asks “as a Captain?”  
“Yes” I lie “once. It was a friendly, hardly someone remembers it and no one congratulated to me, but I was proud. I did the right thing that day”  
I don’t like to lie to my son, but it’s necessary. If he wants a place in the quidditch team, he needs to train himself in what he is good at, and he needs to stop comparing himself to his father.  
He looks a bit relieved. He even smiles, only a little.  
“Thanks, dad”  
I kiss his forehead.  
“Now, go find your mother. You know she wants you to study, even if just a bit, everyday”  
James’ eyes darken a little, but he nods.  
“Ok, dad”  
He goes back inside the house, obediently, and I linger to pick up the ball from the grass. I’m about to pick it up with my hand, but I change idea and I take out my wand.  
I enchant the ball to work like a Snitch. The ball rises, swings, and then fly away. It’s fast. On my feet I’m less comfortable than I’m on my broom, so I wait for the ball to fly closer to me.   
It does. It flies a span over my head; as my eyes rise to see it, my arm snaps. I catch it before I could even blink, my fingers are tight around the trembling ball. I smile, and then I look up even higher. To Merriweather House.  
Tom’s looking out the balcony. I kind of expected it, so, when I raise my hand to greet him, a relaxed smile appears on my face, not at all surprised. I knew he was there.  
Tom returns the greeting with an hesitant movement of his hand. He looks assorted in some kind of thought.   
“Do you have time?” I say, loud enough he can actually hear me, not enough for being heard from my house “do you want some tea?”  
At the first questions he seems about to nod, but now he’s shaking his head quite energetically. He doesn’t want to leave “his” house, I realize - from my part, it was obvious I was inviting myself at his place.  
“I mean” I correct myself “I will visit you. I bring some tea leaves, and sweets”  
At the mention of the sweets he kind of lights up. It would be funny if he wasn’t so damn thin, I’m starting to worry he doesn't eat properly.  
I don’t wait for an answer. If he doesn’t want my company, he’ll just refuse to open the door and I’ll understand.  
So fierce is his determination to not see me, that I find the door wide open. I close it behind my back as I enter the house, with a gentle kick of the heel, because my hands are occupied with any kind of tea and sweets - I took every cookie, every biscuit I could take without raising attention to their disappearance.   
My struggle doesn’t last long, because Tom approaches me, eyes wide open like his house doors, hands ready to take some of my presents. He moves curiously clumsily, as if he’s awkward at the thought of being considerate around someone.  
“Take the tea, Tom” I say gently “you look kind of astonished, do you know that? If you’re a Prefect, you must be used to helping your teachers”  
“I’m indeed used to it” he replies a bit dryly “normally, I don’t help my teachers to carry gargantuan quantities of tea and sweets for me”  
I bite my tongue. He’s awkward because he’s not used to being helped - it was quite the contrary of what I thought. Heavens, I’m such a git.  
“I’m afraid we’ll have to go up the stairs” says Tom leading the way “I usually drink tea in my bedroom, so I brought the kettle on the upper floor”  
I know it. Because I passed the last few days peeking from my window to yours, and I saw the kettle and the lone mug.  
Eventually we manage to place everything I brought from my house on his little wooden desk. The corners are so chipped they scratch me through the fabric of my pants.  
“I hope you brought your own mug” says Tom.  
He reaches the window and give his back to it. The sun caress his shoulders and his neck. He’s slightly tanned there, or maybe he has got a sunburn, so I deduce it’s his favourite position.   
“I didn’t” I contradict him “but it’s not a problem”  
I take his mug from his hand - my fingers brush lightly his, which are cold, and stiff, his skin is smooth and so white, I think he’s made of porcelain like a doll.  
I place the object on his desk and I take out my wand.  
“Geminio”  
Now there are two mugs. Tom looks at me, concentrate, his eyes narrowed.  
“So it’s like this” he says softly.  
“What do you mean?” I ask, grabbing playfully my mug and giving him back his at the same time.  
“Being a wizard, born and raised among wizards” he lays the mug on the window sill.  
Oh. Now I understand.  
“You haven’t thought about using Geminio” I affirm “please, choose your tea”  
Tom steps ahead and comes closer to the desk. He leans slightly, a hand on his armonious chin.  
“No, I haven’t” he confesses “even if magic is somehow natural to me, since I have memory”  
He tends a hand and takes a can of tea. Darjeeling.  
“Here” I offer “I’m quite sure I’m capable of using your kettle”  
He obeys and hands me the tea.  
“ I haven’t thought about using Geminio” he repeats, brows furrowed “and I’m hardly a stupid. You don’t know me, but they say I’m brilliant”  
If anyone else had said so, I would have snorted, mocking them. But his tone of voice, the way he says that… the fact I’ve get immediately the dept of his mind, leave me with little doubt.  
I just fill the kettle with water.  
“I know it”   
He stiffens from his place, back to the window.  
“How so?”  
“I don’t know. The time I looked at you, I felt like I knew everything about you”  
He glares at me, his lips tightened in a hard line.  
“This is not possible” he declares stiffly.  
“Oh, you’re quite correct” I admit calmly as I warm up the kettle with magic “are you a muggleborn?”  
He’s about to shout at me - he doesn’t. Instead, a mocking smile appears on his pretty face, which makes him look cruel, and somewhat even more beautiful.  
“Why don’t _you_ say it to me? Am I muggleborn? Since I’m a open book for you” my declaration seems to offend him personally, as if I wanted to call him a simpleton, instead of emphasizing some kind of connection between us.  
“No, you aren’t” I answer matter-of-factly.  
“If you’re not a stupid” he interjects “you should have understood I’m at least muggle-raised, since a simple charm didn’t occur to me”  
I pour quietly the tea in the mugs, as if he wasn’t antagonizing me.  
“Muggle-raised, not muggleborn” I hum knowingly “because your fingers clung tightly at the windows dill when I mentioned you could be muggleborn. And I used this word, muggleborn, instead of mudblood, at which a muggleborn could have been angry. So, you’re only muggle-raised”  
This reasoning seems to calm him down, even if only for the surprise. His lips are parted in a perfect “o”.  
“Don’t be so surprised just because I don’t look smart” I smile, amused, as I raise the mug to my mouth.  
“It’s not that” something in his tone informs me he’s not just trying to cover up and be polite to me, so I glance at him.  
Tom sips his tea, cautiously to not burn his tongue.  
“It’s like, you observe me. A lot”  
It would be easy to say I do this to everyone, but somehow I don’t want to lie to him. He posed for me at the very window he’s leaned on now. For, like, hours. I owe him the truth.  
I sit at the only chair of this room.  
“Yes, I observe you” I confess quietly.  
His lips tightens again, but just for a moment. He moistens them.   
“Are you a painter? I saw you drawing”  
“Drawing you” I point out “yes. A failed painter, to be honest”  
This doesn’t seem to upset him as much as it maybe should.  
“Why me” he asks, but he’s being a gigantic hypocrite. I don’t resent him for this: he’s young, he needs confirmations, even if he knows perfectly he’s handsome.  
“I told you” I smile innocently “you’re beautiful, and you know it”  
He bites his lips and his heel bumps lightly against the wall. He’s got a little pink on his cheeks.  
“I’ve observed you too” he confesses, and then his eyes widen, as if he’s not who has spoken.  
I chuckle softly and I sip my tea as well - a bit late, because I don’t like to burn my tongue.  
“You did?”  
He hesitates, but he nods and then avoids my look.  
“I was watching you. Playing with your son, you know” his white teeth sink in his lower lip, making it even more plump and red.  
“And why?” I ask jokingly “I’m not particularly handsome, and I’m quite old for you to notice my appearance”  
He shooks lightly, his fingers tightens once more on the window dill, he opens his mouth as if to saying something, then changes idea.  
I observe him struggling, fascinated.  
“I was observing you” he finally manages to say “being a father”


	6. Chapter 6

  
I remain silent for a few seconds after this affirmation. I open a tin box filled with frosted biscuits: baby pink, light blue, vanilla yellow. As soon as I offer him the box, he extends his arm and dips his hand inside it. He picks up three biscuits, not giving attention at the colors nor asking questions about the flavors (which are respectively strawberry, blueberry and, in fact, vanilla).  
“So you haven’t met your father” I say.  
He chokes. He begins to cough against his fist, red in the face, trying to dissimulate. When the cough ceases, he straightens up, a pained smile deforming his mouth, and tearing eyes.  
“As for meeting him, I indeed met him. It wasn’t pleasant” his smile becomes twisted, losing every inch of fun he could have had “for him”  
“So was he a bad father? A non-fatherly figure at all?” I ask tentatively.  
He looks away, as if my look makes him uncomfortable,  
“An absent father, I would define him” he snorts, amused again. His mood is like the spring weather: it swings constantly “you assumed correctly, though. I met him when I grew up, he didn’t raise me”  
I nod, with acceptance.  
“You don’t seem surprised at all” he observes, his brows furrowed - but he’s not looking at me, rather than the biscuits, as for asking himself, am I going to choke again if I take some of them?  
“You’re muggle-raised but not muggleborn” I observe “obviously, you must be orphan of at least one parent”  
“You can’t be sure” he takes another biscuit and glares at me.  
“Normally I couldn’t, but I’m quite sure”  
He straightens his back once again, this time in an attempt (unconscious) to intimidate me.  
“Maybe I’m not orphan at all. Maybe my parents gave me away”  
“Why so, if they’re not both muggles? They shouldn’t have been afraid of your powers”  
He keeps munching his biscuit, not choking this time.  
“Maybe I deserved it”  
“When you were a child?” I don’t hold back my skepticism “I bet you were an adorable little child - you’re still adorable”  
He laughs - and chokes himself, again, but more lightly. He coughs softly and wipes a tear with the white knuckle of a finger.  
“You would lose your bet, I’m afraid. I was a terrible child”  
“There aren’t terrible children, just misunderstood ones”  
“You’re refusing to understand” now his tone his hinted by anger, but I can’t take him seriously, maybe because he’s munching his biscuit quite angrily now “I’ve done something bad. Very bad”  
I shrug.  
“I don’t care”  
“You would, if you knew!” he blurts.  
“But I don’t, now” I insist “isn’t that what matters?”  
He hesitates; chooses another biscuit from the tin box - it’s empty now, he was literally starving, poor thing.  
“My father was a bastard” he says, angrily “but, even if he was a good person, I don’t think he would have loved me”  
I stare at this broke young boy, the biscuit’s crumbles on his cheeks, a trace of melted frosting on the corner of his lips, his high cheekbones pink of mild anger.  
“A good father wouldn’t have abandoned you, even if you were the most difficult child in the world, which I think you weren’t” I say slowly.  
I get up from my chair and join him in front of the window. He doesn’t retract, instead he looks at me, defiantly, narrowing his eyes.  
I reach his face and sweep lightly the crumbles from his right cheek.  
“You don’t know how a father is” I sigh.  
“Then show me” he challenges me.  
“I’m doing it right now”  
He widens his eyes. They’re dark, dark blue, I notice - i thought they were black.  
His lips bend upwards, the corners trembling slightly, as if he hates and loves being touched at the same time, and he doesn’t know how to behave.  
“So you’re fathering right now?” he says mockingly.  
“Indeed”  
“So you will crown all of this with a kiss on my forehead, I suppose”  
I laugh softly.  
“Do you want a kiss on your forehead, Tom?”  
The pink shade on his cheekbones intensifies, but, again, he doesn’t retract and points his bewitching eyes on me.  
“How could I know? I’ve never been kissed before” he reveals, and something, in his tone, or perhaps in these words, makes me shudder. I ignore this feeling and, without thinking, I bend over him (just a bit, he’s quite tall for his age) and press my lips on his smooth forehead.  
He’s curiously warm, I thought he was colder. Porcelain shouldn’t be warm, after all.  
“How was it?” he asks, with a cheeky smile, as if he wasn’t as red as a beet. His neck is burning.  
“I should ask it to you” I correct him “so? How was it, being fathered and all?”  
He laughs softly, a bit vented.  
“I still don’t know” he reveals “it was strange, I think”  
“There was another reason, I thought you must be an orphan” I say, maybe a little out of the blue, because he seems surprised, and his posture stiffens slightly.  
“What’s the reason, sir?” he asks politely, but his eyes are wary.  
I caress the curl on his temple, putting it ordinately with the rest of his hair.  
“I recognize the eyes of an orphan child” I murmur softly “as an orphan myself”  
His mouth discloses a bit, showing regular, white teeth. Then he tightens his lips and avoids my eyes, as if I said something wrong.  
He doesn’t seem angry, but his back and his arms are stiff. I don’t want to make him nervous, so I deviate the conversation.  
“So” I say more cheerfully “this” I point at the peeled window frame “this, and this” the ceiling, stained with moisture, the lame bed, with a pile of books instead of the leg “all this decay too, is due to the fact that you, as a muggle-raised boy, didn’t think about using magic to fix it?”  
He jolts, hands tightened in fists, a look of reprimand on his face.  
“What - _no_!” he exclaims scandalised “do you think I’m so stupid?”  
The fact I’m laughing makes his look even more grim.  
“I’m not good at household charms!” He almost yells, as if he’s admitting it very reluctantly “I’m not a housewife, I’m a duelist, a researcher, a sc-” he interrupts himself just before saying “scientist” and I find it quite adorable.  
“It’s not a bad world, you know” I point out.  
He grimaces.  
“It’s a muggle word”  
“It’s a thing muggles did totally right” I correct him “it improves their life”  
He shrugs, as if he’s not interested at all (he is, but he doesn’t want to admit it). I wish I could provoke him again, but the sun is setting, and Ginny will call me to dinner soon.  
“I have to go” gently, I place my hand on his back “next time I will bring you a book about household charms”  
He pouts - making his lips even more cute - and murmurs something.  
“I will help you” I assure “it’s not a housewife job, making a room habitable, you know”  
He glances at me, kind of shyly.  
“Thank you, sir” he says reluctantly.  
“Don’t call me sir” I caress his hair once more “call me Harry”  
“As long I don’t have to call you _dad_, it’s fine to me”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are becoming dangerous.

I groan and stretch my back, sitting on the chair of my empty studio.

It’s a quiet evening, almost night. The house is silent, my children went to bed long ago, by now James’ll have finished pretending to sleep - I know he reads comics under the sheets, helping himself with a flashlight. He’s looking forward to get a wand. I’m sure he won’t wait his first Charms lesson to learn Lumos.

Ginny is sleeping too, I presume. Usually she fakes some protest when I insist on spending night hours in my studio. But not today.

I confess, I’m finding her a bit… cold, lately.

I glance at Merriweather House. I can’t even make out the facade, the streetlamp’s light doesn’t reach the property, which is wrapped in darkness. Tom isn’t home. I saw him go out some hours ago. Grocery? Too late. A walk? For hours? Is he working? What kind of work could a boy his age do, this late? I’m worried. Maybe he’s gone. Maybe he’ll never come back. Merriweather House isn’t his house, after all.

I bite my lips. I don’t know when did he become so important to me, really, but I can’t hold back a sense of uneasiness. Because it’s so late and he’s not home. And because this matters to me.

I sigh, looking back to my drawings - my latest drawings. I don’t know why is Ginny so cold to me lately, but she would definitely have reason to be angry, if she saw these works. Sheets and sheets, canvases, cardboards, representing Tom. Oh, this is so embarrassing. I can’t help myself: he's all I can draw. His eyes, the curls of his hair, his hands, the gentle curve of his jaw. I spent the last years painting and drawing Merriweather House, and now I’m representing its occupant - quite ironic, isn’t it? And Merriweather House was… just what I could see, idly looking out of my studio’s window: just a placeholder. I pretended I was fascinated by it in order to not admit my muse was long gone - but now she’s back, in the guise of a boy. No, this is not correct. I didn’t know what having a muse was, until I met Tom. He’s my muse. My obsession.

And how old, tragic fairy tales teach, every blessing has its price. Mine is pretty salty: I don’t know if I will ever be able to show someone my works. 

Oh, if this is not quite romantic! It’s like a novel written by Oscar Wilde.

I caress with a finger the charcoal stroke of a hollow cheek. I don’t want anyone to interpret my feelings through these drawings. Because even I can’t understand them. Ginny would, I’m sure of it. Ginny would, and she wouldn’t be pleased by it.

It’s not my fault if he’s so beautiful.

A sudden crack distracts me from my thoughts. Not a loud noise, to be honest, not remotely loud enough to awake someone, but the night is so quiet, and I’m so tense, I couldn’t have failed to hear it.

I stand up and go to the window. The door of Merriweather House closes with another crack. He’s back.

His bedroom light is on, and I wait at the window dill. Finally Tom goes by the window and I can see him. His skin is even paler than before, his eyes are tired, so dark they cast a shadow below. I’ve never seen his hair less than perfect before - now they’re a bit uncombed. His hands shake a bit while he unbuttons the first button of his shirt.

His fingers stop their work, he stops moving at all. I froze. His dark, dark eyes are pointed outside the window of his shabby bedroom - his eyes are on me. He noticed me watching him. My hands press on the window dill, my knuckles turn pale - my entire body turns pale, I think, and I’m feeling like millions and millions of ants are walking on my skin, eating me alive, as a deathly taste invades my tongue. Shame. Fear. Uneasiness. Guilt. Curiosity.

My lungs burn - I forgot to breathe. 

Perhaps a minute has passed, and he’s still there, in front of the window, his hands motionless on the second button of his shirt, the tie loose - his eyes on mine. Please, do something. I can’t breathe. I can’t. I…

He blinks. Slowly, his eyelids close, and then open again. His white hands move. His fingers pinch the button of his shirt, pulling it out of the buttonhole. His shirt opens a bit more. 

His hands go down, the thin wrists caressing his ribs through the fabric. The fingers work on another button, revealing a fragment of undershirt. His eyes never cease to look at me, from his bedroom, through the glass of our windows.

It’s like some days ago - he watches me, watching him. But now, he’s undressing. I take a sudden breath, because I forgot again I need air in order to survive. My heart is pounding so hard, it’s the lone noise in the entire world.

I didn’t notice when I took my hand on my mouth - but it’s here now, so a bite lightly a finger, because I need to. Bite. Something. I can’t breathe too much, the glass could cloud up.

Tom never leaves my eyes. His shirt is entirely unbuttoned now, on a yellowed and worn undershirt. Slowly, so slowly, he slides his open shirt over his shoulders - they’re shining, pale as the moon itself, and bony. He’s so thin I think he could faint, but he’s beautiful. I understand now, why so many artists sold their souls representing anemic, pale, dying young women and boys. It’s the beauty of deciduous things. They’re dying, whispering in your ear: you’re lucky - you’re alive, and present, and you can see me. Soon, I won’t be here anymore, and you are a rare witness of my beauty.

And, again, here’s the price of this blessing: it doesn’t matter how hard you try. You can’t fully represent the beauty of a fading flower. For an artist, not being able to represent beauty is damnation. For me, a failed painter, it’s mere quotidianity. 

This is why I’m not even trying right now, my art in the most hidden corner of my consciousness. I’m perfectly content of just watching. Him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW chapter

A long pause. I think it’s finished now. He will close the curtains, or move away from the window, out of my sight. What I know for sure, it’s that I will not be the first to look away - simply because I can’t. I’m made of stone, as if he did a Petrificus Totalus on me. I can’t look away, I can’t move, I can’t use magic.

Then, Tom moves. His shirt falls on the floor, freeing his arms. He grabs the edge of his undershirt and lifts it, uncovering his belly. He stretches his arms upwards and shows the slight indentation of his ribs, and now his nipples - so tiny, a so-pale shade of tender pink - the hollow shadows of his clavicle. The undershirt slides on his arms and follows his shirt on the floor.

He’s undressed from the waist up now, motionless in front of the window, exposed to my merciless gaze. I know I shouldn't be so greedy, I should look away from him, this innocent half-naked body. I can’t help but watch him, drinking every inch of his exposed body.

Then his hands are on his worn, peeled belt.

Please, don’t do it. No more.

He grabs the buckle with the right hand, as the left unfastens the belt.

I can’t.

His long fingers are so white in contrast to the almost-black grayness of his pants. He pulls the belt out of the pants loops, then he raises it in front of his face. In front of mine.

His fingers open. The belt falls and it’s like I can hear the noise, the  _ cling _ of the belt against the floor, the whip of the old leather following it - oh please,  _ please, Dear Lord, don’t- _

His hands. Caressing. The button. Of his pants.

I press my burning forehead against the glass of the window, almost suffering. Why doesn’t my breath cloud up anything? Why is he constantly in front of me, why can I see him even when I’m closing my eyes? 

He unbuttons his pants. I don’t breathe anymore. His fingers slide the zipper down, revealing the whiteness of his underwear.

A hot breath escapes my mouth as I nearly moan. My fingers are grasping against the window frame. I should have looked away. It’s too late now.

His lips part slowly. With incredible clarity, given the distance between us, I can almost  _ see _ his tongue gently, gently rolling, inside of his mouth. The lips touch softly, and then the tip of his tongue is somewhere behind his upper front teeth. 

_ Re _

_ ma _

_ in _

_ Remain.  _ For a fragment of a second, a hint of supplication in his eyes.

I have to stay with him until the very end of this. I watch his white hands undress his body, so I can see hims body, entirely, as it was the day of his birth. It’s my punishment, because I forced him to speak, to reveal a glimpse of his story - I wanted to expose his soul, and now I have to watch him undressing himself, exposing his very body to my defeated eyes. His waist. His thighs. His knees.

In nothing but his underwear, he touches the glass of his window, as if doing so he could reach me. I don’t know if I want to be reached. My throat is dry right now, I have to swallow many times. My body burns, my head is hotter than the rest of my body - my eyes, are burning. Maybe, when I will have looked away from him, I will be blind. In a Greek myth it would happen.

This is unfair. I didn’t want it.

Didn’t I?

Why am I here? Why did I wait for him to come home? Why did I observe his window - what was I expecting… why didn’t I look away when he started unbuttoning his shirt, not yet noticing me? 

I wanted it too.

I wanted to see. Him. Naked.

He reads my thought, because now his hands are going down. His fingers are a bit contracted and his nails are gently scratching his skin, leaving pink marks - oh, his skin must be  _ so sensitive _ . He’s grabbing the edge of his brief now. His eyes narrow, his lips part - the tip of his tongue touches gently the bottom lip and I pant, I pant and my 

very nails are scratching the wood of the window frame - fragments of painting spreading against the palms. 

Don’t.

Please, don-

Don- do it.

_ Do - it _

My hot breath finally clouds up the glass and Tom’s hands go down, down down, I can’t see- I see the milky, soft thighs of a pubescent boy - I rub my hand against the glass - oh, he’s turning, he’s turning - his harmonious back, his thin shoulder blades, his narrow waist, the, the tantalizing roundness of his buttocks - he’s giving it all to me, all to my gaze.

He’s offering his nakedness to me, like I was a sort of God to him.

I’m panting so hard right now, the glass clouds up again. I don’t have the strength to clean it. I can’t feel my hands. One of them is on the frame of the window, the fingers still moist from the previous rubbing against the misted glass.

The other… the other is rubbing against another discomfort. The second I realize it finds me leaning against the closed window, my cheek pressed on the glass, finding no relief from the heat that invades my body.

I shiver. My hand almost aches, I’m rubbing so hard against the rough fabric of my pants - so different from the smooth texture of his skin, I bet, I bet, I  _ know - _ his silky, warm skin, against my lips when I kissed his forehead. And the scent. Dear Lord,  _ his scent _ . 

How long has he not seen a proper bath? He must be washing himself using Aguamenti and a pathetic excuse of a soap - he had the musky, moist scent of late adolescence and it drives me mad. 

Is he looking at me? Is he looking at me, like I looked at him - is he a witness of what he did to me? Is  _ it _ what he wanted with his little show of his?

A moan escapes my throat as I buck against my hand, and then again, and then again - I’m  _ feeling _ his dark eyes on me, observing me, observing me pleasing myself at the sight of him - no, not  _ at. _

_ Because of.  _

Because of the sight of his naked body, the body he so shamelessly exposed to me. 

_ Remain _ , he said.  _ Watch me _ . And I watched, are you happy now? Are you seeing, my hand against my crotch, as I…

I…

I press the other hand on my mouth and swallow a light cry. The pleasure fills my body - and fills my pants flap of hot semen, which oozes from the fabric of the underwear and goes wetting the palm of my hand.

I lean against the window, again, with the back of my head and a shoulder this time. I pant, I pant - a sigh of relief, and then a sigh of shame.

I glance outside of my window, at the facade of Merriweather House.

His room is dark now, like it has been before, the first time, this evening, I looked at it. 

As if it never happened. Never in the world.

I raise my hand. The semen is glistening at the lights of my studio.

The hell it never happened.


End file.
